Title: When He Is Grown Author: mimic117 Email: mimic1172@gmail.com Rating: NC-17 no doubt, no fooling, no kiddies Category: S, Mulder POV, so don't expect his memories to match the previous story Spoilers: No episodes are referenced herein. This is a companion piece to Train Up A Man, which you should probably read first in order to get this one. Summary: "It's her. I know it is. It's been twenty years, but I'd recognize her anywhere." Keywords: MSR, M/O waaay in the past. Don't let it squick you. Archive: Assuredly, forsooth. Let me know where so I can brag. I'll make sure it gets to Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, thanks. Disclaimer: I ain't claimin' dis. Not mine. Author's Notes: I honestly wasn't going to do this, but Mulder has been niggling at the back of my brain for weeks. I like it, but he gets so whiny when I ignore him, that I decided to give him his way. So now there's a sequel from his point of view. Don't blame me! It's Mulder's fault! Thanks: To all the readers who sent feedback asking that Mulder notice Sherri watching him - this is for you. To Sdani, who goaded me into the first one and now can't get me to stop. I appreciate it, but this is your own fault. Hope it meets your exacting standards. (It's perverted - what else does it need, right?) I appreciate the always-enthusiastic beta, and bow to your superior bawdy imagination. To Jake, my darling almost-Twin. Thanks for the kick-butt beta -- several times! You're the biggest Bitch of them all. What would I ever do without you? I'd still be ending sentences with prepositions, wouldn't I? To Soleil for the really hot suggestion. You'll recognize it when you see it, sweetie. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When He Is Grown by mimic117 It's her. I know it is. It's been twenty years, but I'd recognize her anywhere. I can't see any gray in her waist-length silver- blonde hair -- it looks just the same as I remember. Her body is rounder, more mature, but you don't forget a silhouette like that. And her face is just as beautiful as it was all those years ago, only more lived-in. I can't believe Sherri's here in DC. I wonder if she'll remember me? Scully's standing by my side, repeating a funny story she heard from Holly, while we wait for our turn at the hot-dog cart. I could no more stop listening to her than I could cease to draw my next breath, but I can't take my eyes off Sherri's reflection in the side of the cart. She's in the line behind me, staring at us while trying not to appear obvious. She probably doesn't realize the metal cart is smooth enough to act as a mirror. I've been aware of her scrutiny for several minutes now. Going to the hot-dog stand for lunch was a major concession on Scully's part. Usually, she insists on a place where she can get something healthy while she badgers me about destroying my arteries. Today, I turned on the pout and convinced her that she really wanted a hot-dog with everything. And she let me. What are the odds on that, I wonder? Now, as we wait for our turn, she's telling her funny story, and I'm grinning in all the appropriate places. But as she talks, my mind is doing a twenty- year back-slide. I didn't have any special plans for the summer that year. It was almost the middle of June when I came home from Oxford, and the few friends I had were already working seasonal jobs on the mainland. Dad and I didn't have the closest relationship, so after one uncomfortable visit, there wasn't much for us to talk about. I stayed with Mom, but I didn't want to just sit in the house waiting for her to find something for me to do. Still, it was pure luck that I found the notice at the grocery store asking for a summer handyman. It wasn't how I'd planned to spend my summer, but I knew it would help to pass the time. Plus I could always use the extra money. If I'd known what my summer was going to be like, I wouldn't have waited twenty-four hours before calling. The grocery store notice didn't include a name to contact, so the girlish voice on the other end of the phone was a surprise. She didn't sound much older than me, but I found out later that was a misconception. I was glad to hear that she didn't live too far from Chilmark since I had some doubts about my old junker being able to make a long drive every day. We arranged for her to give me a tour of the property that afternoon, so I cranked up the beater and headed out. The house didn't look too bad from the road as I drove up. It was definitely in need of paint, and the gutters had a scalloped droop where they'd detached from the overhangs. I could see that the grass needed cutting -- it was more of a meadow than a lawn. Noting all the obvious things that would end up on a to-do list, I climbed out of the car. Then Sherri walked out onto the porch and I forgot all about repairs. She was slim, but curvy in all the right places. An old-fashioned term would be "buxom." She had silver-blonde hair that hung down to her waist in a braid, and a slender, elfin face that sported a huge grin. From the toned look of her legs, it was obvious that she exercised on a regular basis. I didn't find out until later that she'd been a Las Vegas showgirl for years. At the time, I just tried to appreciate the vision in front of me without being too blatant about it. The smile on her face was irresistible. I grinned back and stuck out my hand. "Fox Mulder. I called about the work you need done." "I'm Sherri, Fox." Her handshake was firm and confident; not at all what I expected. "Why don't I give you the home repair tour, and then you can make up your mind whether to accept or run for your life?" I really did listen while Sherri took me around the property, pointing out the things she wanted fixed. Every word she said was stored away in my mental file cabinet, but what stuck with me the most afterward was the sound of her voice. I remember her saying that she had rheumatoid arthritis in her feet and ankles, explaining that it made certain activities difficult for her. Hence, the need for someone's help. I never would have guessed. I'd always thought of arthritis as an old person's disease, and Sherri looked far from old. She looked fantastic. I'd already decided to take the job, and I don't think finding out that she wanted the house rebuilt from scratch would have changed my mind. There was something about her that called to me on a basic level. Maybe I sensed that she was as lonely as me. Or maybe I was just a twenty year old horny male. Either way, by the time I went home, I was her hired help. We worked well together. Every morning, I'd show up by 9:00 to discuss that day's chores. I would have preferred to begin earlier, since I never slept late anyway, but I got the impression that Sherri wasn't a morning person, so anything before 9:00 was out of the question. We'd come up with a list of supplies needed, then I'd start work while she ran errands. I enjoyed it. Working with my hands helped me to forget the bleak situation at home and my loneliness at school. It brought back pleasant memories of working with my grandfather whenever we'd go to visit. I could block out upsetting thoughts while concentrating on the challenge of reglazing a window or mitering a piece of molding. After the first few days, I brought along the tools my grandfather left me when he died. Using them seemed to make the work easier. I couldn't complain about my employer. Sherri kept me fed and there was a never-ending supply of iced tea. She let me choose the jobs in the order I wanted to do them and rarely argued with my plans. Any ideas I had on a particular project were duly considered. The working conditions were pleasant and the money was okay, but the "scenery" was spectacular. Sometimes, Sherri would drag boxes out to the yard to sort through so she could talk to me while I worked. If it rained, I'd do repairs inside, and she'd usually end up helping me, both of us chattering the entire time. I never felt like she was talking down to me. I'd been working for two weeks before I found out she was ten years my senior. She treated me not only as her intellectual equal, but also as a social contemporary. At the time, I had no idea how remarkable that was. My first impression of Sherri, based on previous experience, was "blonde, busty, dumb as a brick," but I soon discovered the arrogance of my assumption. We talked about psychology, astronomy, the supernatural, and romance novels. We disagreed over who was the best baseball player of all time and how long you should wait before swimming after a meal. She told me all about leaving home at a young age to follow a dream. I answered endless questions about Oxford and living in England. She never pried about my family or personal matters, and I returned the courtesy. No matter what subject I threw out for discussion, she had plenty of insights and opinions to offer. I began to look for unusual topics, just to hear what she had to say. No subject was off limits. That's when I first realized that smart can be damned sexy. Despite the difference in our ages, my brain knew a desirable woman when it saw one. There were days when it was agony working next to Sherri without touching her skin. Watching her tend flower beds around the yard, I would find myself stopping work for minutes at a time just to stare. The smell of her hair fueled many a night of "pumping the python" before I could get to sleep. Our conversations had me as fascinated by her mind as I had been by her body the day we met. Intelligence and sensuality combined to form a volatile mixture just waiting for a chance to explode. Detonation took place on the hottest day of the week -- a scorcher straight out of Dante's Inferno. Sherri had decided to wash her car, which I said was just an excuse to play in the water since she was too old for a wading pool. We traded jokes while I stood half way up a ladder, scraping peeling paint. When I found an empty bird's nest tucked into a hole in the overhang, I called Sherri to see it, but the sound of water spraying on the car must have drowned out my voice, because she didn't budge. Eager to share, I removed the nest and climbed down. The next thing I knew, freezing hose water was bouncing off my chest and into my face. Shock erased everything else from my mind. I never asked if she did it on purpose, or if I surprised her. That water was the most refreshing thing I'd felt since the cold shower I took the previous night before bed. It only lasted for a few seconds, and I was a bit disappointed when it stopped. I was going to kid Sherri about my impromptu bath, but the sight of her started the water evaporating on my skin from sheer body heat. Strands of silvery hair were stuck all over Sherri's face as she laughed up at me. She'd obviously gotten herself with the hose, because her wet shirt was clinging to her chest, the outline of erect nipples too plain to miss. It may be sexist to think this way, but a woman with a wet T-shirt plastered to her body is very erotic. When she's not wearing a bra underneath, it's enough to kick-start a corpse. Since I wasn't yet the sensitive "Man of the 90's" I would become, I couldn't tear my eyes from Sherri's breasts and was sporting wood in seconds. She must have seen the boner straining against the soaked denim of my jeans because the laughter died on her lips. She raked me with her gaze, top to bottom, the heat in her eyes enough to dry the soaked fabric right on my body. By the time her gaze returned to mine, I'd managed to regain control and made a joke out of the incident. I had her spray me in the back as well, and went up on the ladder to continue working. Sherri went into the house. I'm not sure whether I actually did any more work, or if I just stood there on the ladder in a daze. I was having trouble wrapping my mind around what had just happened. Something as simple as getting squirted with a hose shouldn't have been such an earth- shattering experience. But standing several feet off the ground, with my wet clothes clinging and pulling on my skin, all I could think about was the fire I'd seen in Sherri's eyes. No woman, or girl for that matter, had ever looked at me that way. Like I was in danger of being thrown down and screwed without mercy. For the life of me, I couldn't think of one reason why I should stop her. In the heat of the day, my clothes started to dry out while I was wool-gathering, calling my attention to awkwardly placed wrinkles. I was perched on the ladder, bent at the knees and attempting to rearrange things to my satisfaction, when Sherri came back out of the house. She laughed at my gymnastics, her face crinkling in amusement. "Did you get a bug in your shorts?" she asked. "Boxers chafe when they get wet," I answered. "I'm just trying to shift the wrinkles." "Well bring your wrinkles inside," she replied. "Supper is ready, and I can probably find you some dry pants that my grandfather left behind. You can hang the wet ones on the clothesline until you're ready to leave." I hopped down from the ladder and peeled off my sticky shirt. I hadn't even considered that it would look like a private strip-tease to Sherri. The renewed lust on her face made me stop short. I swear I could feel the caress of her gaze as she devoured my body with her eyes. I stood there without moving while she mapped every inch of my skin with laser-like intensity. My stomach muscles gave an involuntary twitch as she tracked a line from my breastbone to my fly. She spent what seemed like a long time staring at my crotch, her heavy breathing lifting her breasts on every inhale. It took all the control I had to stop my hips squirming. Her pupils were dilated when her eyes found mine. We were both panting in the hot, sultry air, but I don't think the weather had much to do with it. She licked her lips before she spoke. "I'll look for those pants." Sherri went back into the house, and I just stood there for several breathless minutes. A picture of her heaving chest was burned onto my corneas like the after-image you see when someone flashes a camera bulb in your face. No matter where I looked, the vision floated in front of me. I knew what I'd just seen in Sherri's eyes, and I was pretty sure mine had the same look. She wanted me. She'd seen my skinny, almost hairless chest, and the bulge that once again strained against my zipper, and she wanted me. It was mind-boggling. I'd never had a girl look at me with such naked desire before, and here was a woman, quite a few years older than me, with more lust in her eyes than I'd ever imagined. For me! Draping my wet shirt over the clothesline, I walked cautiously into the house. I didn't quite know what to expect. Prurient magazine reading led me to visualize a naked woman standing in the middle of the kitchen with her arms open in welcome. In a way, I was relieved to find the room empty. I didn't honestly think real people behaved the way they did in the Penthouse letters, but I hadn't had enough experience to be sure. Once it sank in that she wasn't expecting me to ravish her on the kitchen floor, I headed through the door to see if she had found me some dry pants. That's when I ran straight into her at the bottom of the stairs. I had to grab her upper arms to avoid knocking her over. She was holding the sweatpants in one hand and obviously hadn't expected to literally run into me, either. We stood for a few seconds just staring into each other's stunned eyes. That's when I smelled it. She was giving off a hot, musky scent that combined with the smell of sweat and my own arousal as it wafted around us. There was wet denim and damp hair mixed with something indefinable that could have been pure pheromones. It was an amazing combination. I took a deep breath, and immediately grew rock hard. Sherri's eyes widened, the pupils dilating as I watched. She was just as turned on as I was. When I drew in another breath, the scent of our lust was too powerful to resist. Instinct took over, and our mouths fused together in a searing kiss. The sweatpants dropped to the floor and her hands were everywhere. She clutched my shoulders and dug her nails into my back. Her warm fingers slid down my spine, under the waistband of my jeans, pulling me tight against her abdomen. One of us was moaning constantly, but I couldn't tell which. All I knew was an overwhelming ache to get as close as I could, even though she was already smashed against the length of my body. And when my roaming hands finally moved around to cup her mound, it was definitely me who moaned. Her shorts were soaking wet. Sherri finally ended the kiss, probably from a need to breathe. We remained crushed together as we exchanged panting breaths, unable to stop staring at each other in wonder. I ground my hard- on into her abdomen in a parody of what we both wanted. Her hands continued to wander over my arms, back, and chest, while mine traced from the curve of her breasts to her waist and the flare of her hips. My fingers brushed down silky thighs as far as I could reach, then back up, straight under the loose edge of her shorts. My hips stopped their unconscious circling against her stomach as my brain registered what my hands had found. She wasn't wearing panties. Centuries of civilized thought processes were vaporized. Only the most primitive ideas registered as I cupped Sherri's ass, picked her up, and slammed her against the wall next to the stairs. Removing our clothes was out of the question. It would have meant unwrapping her legs from my waist and letting go long enough to get undressed. The thought never even crossed my mind. All I wanted to do was create a way past her shorts and bury myself as deep as possible. I couldn't stop the growl that rumbled out of my chest as I felt Sherri's fingers unzipping my jeans. Her hand was cool and soft as she gingerly pulled my cock from the too-tight denim. Taking time to explore and discover each other at that point wasn't even an option. Having moved her shorts enough for a clear path, I plunged between her slick folds with one long thrust. I'd had sex before. A few times. With girls my own age. And it had been enjoyable, if not mind-blowing. But this wasn't adolescent groping and grunting behind a sand dune or in the back seat of my mother's car. No fumbling race to get inside a girl before I came all over her leg. This was adult Sex, with a capital s. A man and woman with a mutual need coming together in an explosion of lust. I'd never felt anything so powerful in my life. Too bad it didn't last any longer than the adolescent variety. It didn't take more than a few thrusts before I felt the tension start low in my belly. I could tell I was going to come hard, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do to stop it or even slow it down. I was saved from total humiliation by Sherri's wail of pleasure in my ear as my hips jerked in release. We remained coupled together at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes as our breathing slowed to normal. When Sherri pushed on my chest, I set her back on her feet, slipping out of her in the process. I stepped away, tucking myself into my jeans, a fumbling apology already forming on my lips. I figured I should at least try to explain before she smacked me into next week. Sherri smiled, covering my mouth with her fingers before I could speak. I thought she was going to say there was no need to apologize or something else trite, but she surprised me by asking me to join her in the shower to clean up. She didn't need to ask twice. Just the thought of it had things stirring back to life. I'd never had sex in the shower before. Most teenage girls don't have that kind of freedom, even when their parents aren't home, and jacking off with the soap didn't even come close. Sherri took great delight in showing me what I'd been missing. That turned out to be only the first of many romps in the shower. Over time, our exuberance must have loosened some of the plumbing because replacing the bathtub showed up on the repair list before the end of the summer. We stumbled from the bathroom to the bed, barely dry and totally exhausted. I fell asleep with my head on her breasts, feeling content for the first time in a long while. When I woke up, the sun was just beginning to set outside the window. The room was stifling; the small fan on the dresser wasn't doing much more than stirring the hot, soggy air. In spite of the sweat slicking my skin wherever our naked bodies were touching, I didn't feel inclined to move. Most pre-adult guys aren't very deep thinkers. They're driven by hormones and misinformation when it comes to sex. Having spent several weeks in Sherri's company, I'd come to appreciate her intelligence, but only after my first gonad-driven reaction to her body. Was I really as shallow as other guys I'd heard talking about girls as though they were amusement park rides? Were big breasts and a quick fuck more important to me than what might be going on in her head? I wanted to think not, yet the overwhelming urge was there to rut like a dog after a bitch in heat. Before I could indulge in anymore soul searching, she began to stir. The movement drew my attention to the breast beneath my cheek, so I nuzzled the underside of it to wake her up. We probably would have resumed where we left off, but my stomach let out a menacing growl, and Sherri insisted that we feed it. When she climbed out of bed, all I wanted to do was drag her back and bury myself between her legs again. The thought that this beautiful, mature, sexy woman might let me was almost too much to comprehend. Suddenly, it seemed too good to be true; like I was about to wake up in my own bed with a sticky mess on the sheets. Cold squiggles of doubt and fear chased each other in circles on my spine. "Promise we'll do this again or I'll go on a hunger strike." I grabbed Sherri around the waist and pulled her against me. The feel of her naked skin sliding against mine drove all thoughts of food from my mind. I didn't know if this was just a one-off or the start of a summer-long fuck fest, but I sure knew which one I was voting for. "Good in bed and can hang gutters, too?" A smile bloomed across her face. "Your ass is mine for the summer, handyman." Not only my ass, but several other portions of my anatomy took note and cheered. After one toe-curling kiss, Sherri untangled herself from me and fished a pair of sweatpants from the dresser. I pulled them on while she got dressed, then we both headed downstairs for a late supper, despite the bulge in the front of my pants. After that day, I think I spent the remainder of the summer at half- mast. We didn't talk about what had happened until we were almost through with supper. While I ate, my brain was spinning, trying to find the words for how I felt. In my own experience, you didn't screw a girl without at least saying "I love you" once. Even if it didn't last for more than a couple of weeks, you were expected to think with the big head first before the little one took over. I wasn't sure how Sherri felt about me, but I didn't want her to think I was only after one thing. "Sherri, I want you to know -- " "No, Fox." She cut me off in mid-sentence. Everything I was planning to say came to a screeching halt. "No what?" "No, you don't love me. Any more than I love you." "What makes you say that?" "Because you need to know someone longer than three weeks to fall in love. But that doesn't mean what we feel isn't important." Sherri went on to explain the difference between what we felt for each other and the kind of love I thought I understood. I began to see that the combination of aching need and frenzied want wasn't really love, but basic desire. She admitted to being attracted to me right from the beginning, just as I was to her. As she talked, I realized that I was being offered a guilt-free summer of no-strings- attached sex. My cock started to twitch at the mere thought. I flashed Sherri a rueful grin that made her laugh. "If I apologized for letting my hormones get the better of me, I'd be lying. I'm just used to tying it all up with a bow of happily-ever- after-forever before getting inside a girl's pants. I want you, but I was afraid I'd come across like a sex maniac." Reaching across the table, she folded her hands around mine. "You're too young to be thinking of forever with a woman my age. You should experience more of life with girls closer to your own age. Although I won't promise you forever, I will promise to be your friend." We sat for a few minutes while I digested everything she'd said. Finally, I stood up from my chair and tugged on Sherri's hands until she was standing, too. Then I silently led her back up the stairs. There was so much I wanted to explore, and I figured there wouldn't be a better opportunity than the present. My personal goal was to get naked and roll around on the mattress until I got back inside her, but Sherri kept stalling me, drawing out the anticipation. My hands were redirected every time I tried to remove her shorts or shirt, and I was rapidly getting frustrated. I was only wearing the sweatpants -- my T-shirt was still out on the clothesline -- and it seemed wrong that she should have on more clothes than me. When she squirmed out of my arms and stepped back to admire my bare chest, I resorted to whining. "Come on, Sherri. You're making me crazy here." "Patience, patience. I want to savor the moment." I looked down, wondering if she was seeing something I wasn't. "It's just my skinny carcass. What's to savor?" The look of surprise on Sherri's face was unexpected. "Don't you realize how beautiful you are?" she asked. I must have looked equally surprised because she opened the closet to reveal a full-length mirror on the inside of the door. She turned me to face the mirror, my whole body outlined in its surface, with Sherri's face peeking around my arm. I was never satisfied with my own body while growing up. I'm not sure anyone is at that age. In school, being on the swim team wasn't a sure-fire way to get girls. They always seemed to go for the football players or weight lifters -- the guys with chests and arms big enough to have their own zip code. A swimmer's muscles don't develop the same way. You tend to be wide in the chest and shoulders, narrow in the waist and hips, but not overly muscular anywhere. Swimming pares your body down to the minimum amount of bulk. You're not ramming head-on into piles of muscles on legs, so you don't need to build up a corresponding set for protection. With my thin arms and legs, and sparse chest hair, I'd never considered my body much to look at. Now, here was a woman who I found sexy as hell, and she was telling me that I was beautiful. I decided I wanted to hear more. "Let me show you what I see when I look at you," Sherri said. Moving to stand next to me, she ran her hands across my upper chest to cup my shoulders. "Look at how wide they are. Strong enough to pull your own weight through the water, or carry a heavy ladder. The muscles ripple and flow when you scrape paint off the siding. I love watching your shoulders while you work." Her fingers trailed down my biceps. "Your arms are like finely turned wood, polished and molded, reflecting light and shadows in the striations. I can see new layers building on top of the smooth swimmers' muscles, making your forearms stronger, your biceps more rounded and powerful. Sometimes, when you're not watching, I like to just stare at your arms." In the mirror, I watched her hands smooth across my chest. "Such a wide chest on such a slender waist. Muscle-bound beach boys are so overrated. You have just the right amount of pectoral development, not too little and not too much. Your nipples stand proud on the shelf of your chest, pleading to be licked and kissed and sucked." I couldn't help groaning at the thought. I wanted her more every minute. Her admiring words were already making me breathe harder, and neither of us was naked yet. Sherri was still wearing her shirt and shorts, and I was in my borrowed sweatpants. Her grandfather must have been heavier than me. Those pants would have fallen off long ago if not for the hard-on created by Sherri's voice and hands. I stared at her fingers as they skimmed down my torso and dove into the crease at the top of my thigh. "God, I love this spot on your body. Your jeans ride so low on your hips, these shadowy trails are revealed every time your shirt pulls out of your pants when you stretch for something overhead. It makes me want to lick my way straight down to where they converge, knowing I'll find something wonderful at the trail's end." Sliding her hands under the waistband, Sherri pulled the pants out over my erection and let them drop to the floor. Without thinking about it, I stepped out of them and kicked them to one side. Staring back at me from the mirror was someone I hardly recognized -- a strong, confident, not unattractive man had replaced the skinny-chested loser. I was flabbergasted. Sherri went down on her knees behind me and ran her palms over my ass. "I wish you could see yourself from this angle, Fox. You're Michelangelo's David. The light shining off the sweat on your skin gives it a sheen like golden marble. The planes and angles of your back and ass are cast into relief as you move. I could spend hours just watching the shifting shadows." Her lips and tongue brushed kisses on my ass. I closed my eyes and whimpered, reveling in the sensation of cooling moisture on my skin as she covered both cheeks thoroughly. My penis pulsed in time to my pounding heart, growing harder than I ever thought possible. I opened my eyes and looked down, finding Sherri in front of me, still on her knees. She looked up, smiling, and caressed my thighs. "Your legs have so much hidden strength. There's no fat anywhere on them -- nothing but tight muscle and sinew bursting with power. It's easy to tell that you run often. Your calves and knees have the definition of the true athlete. I know that if I tried to run away from you, I wouldn't get far." Sherri ignored the woody bobbing in front of her face and seemed to be headed for my feet, but I couldn't take it anymore. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I hauled her upright and kissed her as hard as I could. I wanted to feel her skin against every inch of mine, but first I had to get her clothes off. Lips still clamped together, I walked her backwards toward the bed, tugging down her shorts on the way. When we bumped into the mattress, I stopped kissing her long enough to yank the shirt over her head. I would have resumed the lip lock, but she turned us around and pushed me backwards onto the bed. Climbing up next to me, Sherri proceeded to drive me out of my mind by kissing, licking, and touching my body every place except where I needed it most. I discovered how sensitive my nipples are when she gently bit one, then moved to suck on the other. I was getting frantic to be inside her, but she continued her attentions from head to toe for far longer than I thought I could stand. When she finally zeroed in on my groin, I felt ready to explode just from the brush of her gaze. She wrapped her lips around my aching shaft, and I shot my load. I must have yelled, though I don't remember it. My throat was a bit sore the next day. I do remember gathering Sherri in my shaking arms and falling asleep. When I woke up, I was determined to return some of the pleasure I'd already experienced, but she insisted that I go home and get some sleep since it was nearly midnight. I would have been happy to spend the night right there, but Sherri convinced me that it wouldn't be a good idea. We had agreed not to commit ourselves to each other, and waking up in someone's arms implies that type of attachment. I was disappointed, but I went along with her decision. I treated my car a little nicer the rest of that summer. If it broke down, I wouldn't be able to get to work. Of course, I kept hoping it wouldn't start when it was time for me to leave in the evening so I could spend the night, but it never worked that way. After that first time together, we had a somewhat different routine. I still arrived by 9:00 every morning, but instead of sitting and talking while Sherri finished her coffee, I'd kiss her until we were both in a frenzy of lust. Sometimes we'd make it upstairs to the bedroom, other times I'd throw her on the table and fuck both our brains out. Sherri's lack of underwear was a real time-saver. She always wore soft, baggy knit shorts, so all I needed to do was move a bit of fabric aside and I was inside her in seconds. It struck me as such a good idea I decided to leave nothing between me and my jeans, either. I never blurted out the fact that I was going commando, but she caught on the next day. Sherri was an observant person, so switching from zippers to button flies might have given her a hint. While we were standing together discussing a repair project, I felt the definite sensation of my fly being unbuttoned. I decided to tease her and pretend not to notice. As soon as her cool fingers snaked through the opening and wrapped around my hot flesh, my eyes rolled back in my head and I lost the conversation thread. That became a favorite game of hers, always played at just the right moment to make my brain short-circuit from the loss of blood rushing south. Afterward, I would apologize for dropping the conversation ball, but she never seemed to mind repeating herself. Sherri was a woman full of surprises. One morning, I found the kitchen empty and assumed Sherri was busy elsewhere in the house, so I sat down at the table with the paper to wait. I was engrossed in an article about the new science of DNA fingerprinting when I felt fingers dancing over my crotch. She was unbuttoning my jeans from under the table. Smooth fingers pulling my dick out through the open fly and a contented hum coming from the direction of my lap made me look down just as Sherri engulfed me with her mouth. I dropped the paper and grabbed onto the sides of the chair seat. The sight of her head bobbing up and down over my groin was like all of my best wet dreams turned into reality. She must have sensed that I was quickly reaching the verge of meltdown. After only a few passes between her lips, Sherri let my penis go with a tiny pop and crawled out from under the table. I was frantic at the thought that she was going to leave me sitting there with my putz hanging out of my pants, rock hard and ready to blow. I should have known better, but experience wasn't on my side. Without a word, Sherri walked around behind me and pulled on the chair. It only took a couple of pulls before I got the message. I scooted the chair away from the table and watched as she returned to stand in front of me. She stopped between my spread knees, facing away from me, and pulled her shorts to one side. With the other hand, she grabbed my dick and guided it inside as she sat straight down onto my lap. By that point in the summer, we'd had sex in a number of positions, but this was totally unlike anything we'd done up to then. Since Sherri was sitting on my lap with her legs between mine, I didn't have much leverage for thrusting. Any appreciable movement was under her control. The angle was different, too; tilted more toward the front of her body. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear the noises she was making. When coupled with the view I had of my cock drawing out and plunging back in as she rode me, the fact that I was going to blow my wad in under two minutes didn't come as a big surprise. Reaching around Sherri's body, I grabbed her breasts and pinched her nipples. She threw her head back and cried out as she ground her hips down against my pelvis. I buried my face into her back and howled my agreement. We sat with my arms wrapped around her limp form while our breathing returned to normal, but we didn't stay like that for long. The chair was starting to feel a bit shaky. The wet spot on the front of my jeans was a small price to pay for such a unique experience. I spent some time that afternoon reinforcing the legs on all the kitchen chairs. Just in case. We managed to keep up with the work, but most days we also found time for play. I especially liked ambushing Sherri at odd moments -- like the time I caught her doing laundry. One minute she was closing the washer lid after adding softener, and the next, I'd picked her up, laid her over the machine on her stomach, and was sliding into her from behind. I pumped slowly in and out, listening to her moans over the sound of the washer going into the rinse cycle. I wasn't in any hurry. The noises she was making were wonderful, and she felt so good I could have stayed right there until the clothes were done. However, it seemed Sherri *was* in a hurry. Reaching to the control dial, she turned the washer to "spin" and all hell broke loose. The vibrations traveled straight through Sherri's body and right into mine. I found myself clutching her hips for dear life while I pounded her against the side of the washer. She was clinging to the control panel across the machine's back, keening her delight at the top of her lungs. I finished before the cycle did, but we stayed connected until the laundry was done, just enjoying the novel sensations. I wasn't able to do laundry for a long time without getting a boner that could crack walnuts. Evenings were a special time of the day. I'd work for a while after supper, but once the sun headed for the horizon, I was done. Sometimes we'd just sit and watch TV, with me making wise- cracks over top of the newscasters' latest whine. Sherri seemed to get a kick out of it, laughing until she was holding her sides and begging me to stop. My post-adolescent ego really didn't need the encouragement, but the laughter seemed to make her forget the arthritis for a while. I could always tell when she was having a flare-up. She would walk less, sit more, and move as though she was trying not to actually touch the ground. On those days, I would pull her feet into my lap and warm them with my hands while putting forth my best efforts to keep her mind distracted. I like to think it helped. There were some nights when I'd have company in the shower after I finished working. We often didn't make it back downstairs to watch TV afterward. If we didn't contribute to the deterioration of the old bathtub by our gymnastics, we'd drive each other crazy with the soap and then move to the bedroom. We'd load the record player with her old albums and allow Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Brenda Lee, and Buddy Holly to serenade us. Evenings were Sherri's favorite time to experiment with something new. We must have tried everything -- blindfolds, edible body oils, voyeurism, even things no mother would approve of with food. There was a definite progression of trust in our experiments, from different positions, to oral action, to anal penetration. I'd never given or received anal sex, so I wasn't prepared for the feeling of a slender finger up my ass the first time. The sensation was unlike anything else I'd ever experienced. I couldn't even find enough breath to shout when I came. Being embarrassed by my own reaction and enjoyment never even occurred to me. Men who don't allow their partners to touch them there just don't know what they're missing. Sherri seemed to enjoy playing with my end zone as much as I liked her doing it. I wanted to reciprocate, but I think my youthful excitement and enthusiasm gave her pause. She did let me penetrate her with my fingers or tongue sometimes. Anal sex is such a personal, private activity, I felt honored that she had so much faith in me. Of all the things we did together, anal penetration was the most special. Sherri also taught me how to perform oral sex and enjoy it. It seems strange to think that I'd never gone down on a girl, but the only one I'd ever suggested it to just about threw up. I figured if she felt that strongly about it, I'd be better off giving up on the idea. But Sherri changed my mind and showed me what a turn-on it could be to drive a woman crazy with your tongue. Rainy days were spent either working indoors on painting and reglazing windows, sorting and packing, or marathon make-out sessions. I started praying for rain before I went to sleep at night. One particularly nasty storm knocked out the power early in the day. Since the dark clouds and lack of light made it hard to see downstairs, we used that as an excuse to get naked and hop into bed. Sherri had her tongue where the sun don't shine, and I was humping a pillow like an untrained puppy when the phone rang. Unfortunately, the phones weren't affected by the power outage. I tried to convince her to let it ring, but she'd been waiting for her parents to call for a couple days. So there I was, alone on the bed, a streak of saliva cooling on my ass -- all pumped up and no place to come. I laid there panting for several minutes, waiting for the woody from hell to subside, but it didn't seem inclined to disappear, no matter how much I tried to persuade it. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. Rolling over, I closed my eyes. Cupping my balls in one hand, I grabbed hold of my cock with the other. Already on the ragged edge of boiling over, I was hoping to simply keep myself hard long enough for Sherri's return. As the minutes ticked by, the likelihood of actually being able to hold on diminished. My own hands were beginning to feel far too good. After about ten minutes of careful stroking and pulling, I was ready to go after her and fuck her right there, phone call or not. When I opened my eyes, Sherri was standing naked in the doorway, one hand wedged between her legs, the other rasping back and forth over one erect nipple. The look in her eyes told me that she'd been there for several minutes. "Watching you makes me so hot, Fox," she whispered. "I want to see you come." Those words were all it took. My back arched off the bed as I released my fragile control and let it rip. The yell that tore from my throat was joined by one from Sherri, still standing on the other side of the room. Wet, sticky semen splattered on my chest and stomach as it erupted up and over me. I turned my head to see Sherri slumped against the doorframe, slowing the movement of the hand between her legs. She caught my eyes and gave me a tired little grin. Stumbling across the room, she climbed back onto the bed, snagging a box of tissues from the nightstand. We cleaned up the mess I'd made, then wrapping my arms around her, I fell asleep with the thought of future voyeuristic opportunities in my head. When a storm moved in after lunch the following week, I seized my chance. We kept working for a couple hours as the rain pelted down outside, then Sherri declared the rest of the day to be free time. I took a shower while she made supper, then we ate on the porch and watched the storm. Afterward, we gravitated to the bedroom, but instead of launching my usual attack, I invited her to lie down and snuggle. I was learning that it paid off in the long run to make time for touching. Ramming home and getting my rocks off was fun, but Sherri was teaching me that the anticipation was almost as good as the act. Plus, I figured there was a better chance of her agreeing to my idea if she was already horny. My hands were tickling paths up her inner thighs when I spoke up. "Sherri, would you do something for me?" My voice was a little higher pitched than I liked, but the words were out. She stopped scratching my nipples through my shirt and cocked an inquiring eyebrow. "I want to watch you touch yourself." The other eyebrow joined the first one. "You want me to masturbate for you?" Her voice didn't sound angry, so I decided it was probably safe to nod. "Do you want me to do it now? Right here?" I nodded again, and added an ingratiating grin. Sherri's head bobbed in agreement. "Okay." Sweet Jesus. She sat up and yanked her shirt off, setting her breasts bouncing. Hiking her hips off the bed, she shimmied the shorts down to her feet, then flung them at my astonished face. "But you need to do something for me, too, Fox." She scooted around a bit until she was comfortable. "I can't just get myself off without some kind of visual or mental stimulation. Why don't you dance for me?" "You want me to WHAT?" Sherri sighed and trailed her fingers down her stomach to the nest of curls at the top of her thighs. She licked her lips and gave me a smoky look. "You don't have to tango or anything. Just give me something to watch that will make me hot and bothered. I guarantee, it won't take much." She ran her hands back up her body and over her breasts, making them quake and me quiver. Sherri knew my biggest weakness, and was blatantly using it to get what she wanted. I knew what she was doing and I couldn't have cared less. I had a "thing" for Sherri's breasts. They weren't huge, but they were firm, well rounded, with small, pointed nipples that always seemed to be crinkled in arousal. When viewed in combination with her tiny waist and slender hips, they were more than adequate to make my dick stand up and take notice. I couldn't seem to keep my hands off them. My favorite sex position was with her on top, because I could see most of her body and still touch her breasts. After Sherri, I wasn't interested in women with smaller breasts for a very long time. Returning Sherri's smoldering gaze for a few heartbeats, I climbed off the bed and walked to the record player. I wasn't sure if I was going to arouse her or make her laugh, but if Sherri wanted hot and bothered, I'd try to give it to her. One strip-tease, coming up. I hunted through the pile of 45rpm records until I found the song I wanted. "When A Man Loves A Woman," by Percy Sledge. I was more interested in the beat and feel of the music than in the words themselves. But the words didn't hurt, either. Setting the player on "repeat," I went to stand where Sherri could see me. She'd hitched herself up against the pillows, and her breathing sped up as she recognized the music. My hips started to sway of their own accord as the sensuous backbeat flowed from the speakers. I'd never thought of myself as a dancer, but I was determined to make this good because Sherri wanted it. I closed my eyes and let the music crawl under my skin. As I bumped and swiveled to the rhythm, I let my head loll back on my shoulders. I quickly got into the feel of the music, caressing my chest and abdomen, imagining Sherri's fingers in place of mine. Reaching down to cup the front of my jeans, I could hear her panting breaths over the quiet sections of the music. When I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and ran my hands underneath, she gasped. I opened my eyes to find her hungry gaze devouring my body. One hand was pressed between her legs, stroking and pulling the glistening skin peeking out of her curls. I felt my jeans tighten across the front as my hard-on filled the available space, and then some. Moving my hands up my body, I worked the T-shirt off over my head and down one arm, dangling it from my hand for several seconds before hurling it across the room. Sherri jumped, the fingers in her folds picking up speed, her other hand tweaking and massaging her nipples. I didn't even have my pants off yet, and already I could see the moisture coating her inner thighs. I wasn't sure either one of us was going to make it to the end of my performance. I spent the remainder of the song's first run-through letting my hands wander wherever it felt good. I was really getting into the movements, swaying from side to side, grinding my hips in Sherri's direction, offering my body to her with my hands. When the music began again, I grabbed her gaze with mine and reached for my fly. Sherri's mouth opened on a gasp, and she licked her lips. Each button was released from its confines with agonizing slowness. Every new inch of exposed skin brought another swipe of Sherri's tongue and a groan. When I had the last button undone, I plunged my hands into the opening. Sherri's back arched off the bed as she let out a hoarse cry. "God, Fox! Do it for me. You're so fucking sexy." That was it. I had to touch her. Pulling my hands out of my pants, I dived for the bed. Landing on the mattress just short of Sherri's crotch, I grabbed her feet and dragged her to my mouth. She let out a screech that turned into a moan as I latched onto her swollen folds. I was like a maniac, growling and groaning, trying to bury my face deep inside her fragrant warmth. Sherri whimpered and twisted under my assault, trying to get closer rather than get away. When I reached up to squeeze her breasts, she clamped her legs around my ears and came. That's when I realized that I'd been humping the mattress and was about to follow Sherri's example. There was no way I could avoid coming in my jeans, so I didn't try. The friction was perfect, her scent was incredible, and the sound of my own shout muffled by her flesh just made the orgasm sweeter. For years, I had to change radio stations to keep from embarrassing myself whenever that song was played. Sherri taught me more than I ever thought I needed to know about so many things. I learned to be more sensitive to my partner's needs; to delay my own gratification in favor of prolonging the excitement; to see the person I was with as a woman instead of a step up from my own fist. Because of her acceptance and friendship, I became more confident, not only in my ability as a lover, but in myself as a person. All of these things were taught to me little by little, as loving lessons hidden inside mind- blowing sex. I didn't realize exactly what kind of gift she was giving me until that summer was almost over. As my school vacation wound to a close, I jokingly started giving Sherri a Handyman's Countdown of how much time I had remaining. It began with months, then weeks, and finally days. By then, it was no longer a joke to me. She acknowledged every new reminder, but I could tell that she was trying to ignore the reality of summer's end. In spite of her assertions that we weren't "in love," I knew that what I felt for her went deeper than just affection and friendship. No one else had ever cared for me the way she did -- freely, openly, without strings or reservations. I could never find enough words to thank her for what she had given me. Leaving was going to hurt. My last day with Sherri was full of emotional highs and lows. We joked about my future even as the tears ran down our faces. She said that she would watch for my name in the papers when I became famous. I swore that I would see her again. If there had been any way to stay, I would have found it. That night, I made real love to her for the first time. Everything we had done up to then had been just plain sex compared to the gentle, tender, sweet love I gave her that day. I let my body tell her all the things I could never say. And when I fell asleep in her arms afterwards, I prayed that I would never wake up if it meant I could stay with her. I've always regretted not writing to Sherri the minute I got back to Oxford. I spent a couple of weeks putting it off while I settled back into the college routine, always holding thoughts of her in the back of my mind. I missed her so much. By the end of my third week at school, I'd been firmly hooked by one Phoebe Green and all thoughts of anyone else were smothered by her presence. Loneliness can make you believe the oddest things. I was so sure that Phoebe loved me, and that I loved her back. It took a long time before I figured out I was wrong. By that time, I was bruised and bitter, inclined to think that all women were as manipulative as Phoebe. Her behavior even colored my memories of Sherri, twisting them into parodies of the truth. It took the friendship of a tiny, intelligent, independent, loyal pathologist to make me see that not all women are created like Phoebe. Eventually, I began to remember that long-ago summer the way it really was. I've always been grateful to Scully for giving me back those memories. I don't think I ever realized how important they were to me until I saw Sherri's reflection today in that hot-dog cart. Scully must have stopped talking a few minutes ago because she's just standing there, one eyebrow cocked. I can feel a grin starting to grow on my face but I don't try to stop it. While I was taking a randy trip down Memory Lane, a decision was made. I know what I'm going to do, what I need to do -- for both of us. "There's someone I want you to meet, Scully." Placing my hand in the small of her back, I turn her toward the rear of the line and step away from the cart. One night a few months ago, after we became lovers, Scully asked me if there had ever been someone really special in my past. So I told her about Sherri. In great detail. I just couldn't help myself. Once I got going, it all came pouring out. I'd never told anyone else about that summer, and I guess it was a relief to finally be able to share it. When I saw the tears in Scully's eyes as she gazed at me, I thought for sure I'd gone too far and hurt her with my revelations. To my surprise, she pulled my face close and gently kissed my lips. All she said was that, someday, she'd like to meet such a perceptive person. I can see the moment Sherri realizes that we're walking toward her. There's a look of uncertainty in her eyes that I don't ever remember seeing before. For a second, I question whether I'm doing the right thing. Maybe she never thought of me after I went back to school. Maybe she'd rather I didn't dredge up those memories. Maybe this is a bad idea. I take a deep breath and try not to let my doubts show. There's only one way to find out. "Sherri? I don't know if you remember me..." As she wraps me in her arms, the radiant smile on her face tells me she never forgot. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END Author's Notes: I hope you've found this look into Mulder's past as interesting as I have. I never knew all of these things about him, but that's what he told me. Thanks to everyone who lent me their support in this little endeavor. It's been fun. Feeback: Is printed out, fawned over, and stroked to tatters at mimic1172@gmail.com